When my car radio was stolen, I thought
I wouldn't miss it. I did.
Was I upset when my car stereo was stolen? I suppose you could say
so. I sat in the driver's seat, gaping at the vacant space where
the radio used to be, and thought: They can land a man on the
moon but they can't develop a door handle with little spikes that
spring out like switchblades when a burglar touches it?

But then I rationalized that not locking my doors was a good thing.
If they want your radio, ready or not, here they'll come. At least
my windows were intact.

As I sat there, I surveyed the surrounding houses, all of them
suddenly suspect. Was it that guy? That one over there? It was, I
knew, none of them. They had their own car stereos. If they wanted
anything of mine, it was my parking space. In a city, there is no
more prized possession than a good parking space and I am lucky
enough to have a great one. But that's another story.

Later, as I drove around town, it occurred to me that maybe the
vandal did me a favor.

I hate the radio.

I obsessively search the dial for something to listen to. There's
Britney and classic rock (Foreigner? Boston? Classic?) and "soft
rock" and plodding, angst-drenched heavy metal and insipid pop
country and easy listening (which is anything but) and watered-down
hip-hop and morning deejays who mistake obnoxiousness for humor.
There are apoplectic talk-radio political commentators who might
blow a synapse right through your dashboard. There are fund drives
and commercials and hucksters of every stripe.